The storied “Cement Ship” in Aptos, California, a few months before it took its final plunge into the Pacific.
When you’re shipwrecked and cannot die, the page of your book never turns. You live one endless day of saltwater, wind, and the veiny red behind closed eyelids. The water will not burn your tongue nor your guts, but neither will it stop the hollowing thirst. Breathe deeply and watch the flashes of fish under your wet fingers, because this is all you have.
And eventually, you realize that you can tear away the sea and sky. You see the grey void beneath the searing blue, and wisely let the sky curl back into place, the sea slapping at your feet once more. “I will not remember that,” you say to the sea, and the words echo for a long time, maybe years, but maybe only seconds. It’s ok. You’ll remember again when the shadowy figures dart under your dangling feet. You’ll clutch your tattered raft and whisper, “It’s just a dream, wake up! Wake up!”
And you will. You’ll wake up to the void, the last churning of your stomach fading into incoherent particles, and you’ll turn right back to the open sea.
The sea is full of many dead things. You notice them when you cannot die.
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Musical Inspiration: Sting‘s “Something the Boy Said.” Sting was brilliant when he was with The Police (and in David Lynch’s Dune) but I don’t like his solo stuff and the bland electric piano vibe of this song drives me nuts. But I can’t help liking this song anyway. It’s so creepy. Why did the people in the song die? I imagine that Roman soldiers were going into Scotland in their initial invasions, and they were eaten by a moor monster, or maybe just some woad-covered, half-naked Scots. But no, a guy on SongMeanings.com has a fascinating historical explanation about how crows can give away an army’s position.
